Crumbling Like Pastries
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "But lately, her face seems slowly sinking, wasting." My take on Fantine's descent into poverty and her last desperate days. A songfic to Ed Sheeran's The A Team.


The A Team, by Ed Sheeran, is one of my favorite songs at the moment, and I think it perfectly fits Fantine's sad situation in _Les Misérables_. My image for this story is Uma Thurman as Fantine in the 1998 film. Her look in that movie was based on some of the original illustrations of Fantine.

(For my own reference: 57th fanfiction, 5th story for _Les Misérables_.)

* * *

White lips, pale face  
Breathing in the snowflakes  
Burnt lungs, sour taste

The beauty that once had drawn shallow Félix Tholomyès to her side was, like him, long vanished when Fantine turned to prostitution in Montreuil-sur-Mer. She knew that her pale, gaunt face and lips that were often tinged blue from the cold made her less attractive. The other women who worked the docks all spent part of their earnings on makeup. But Fantine had no spare money buy creams or powders, so instead, she pinched her cheeks, in a desperate effort to make it look like she wore blush. Standing on the docks every night, she pinched until her cheeks burned and her fingers ached. Sometimes her bare face even worked to her advantage, for certain men preferred a more innocent-looking whore.

Every evening, before she headed out to the docks, she made regular rounds in the alley-ways behind the markets and bakeries, scouring for food that had been thrown out. When she was lucky, she found scorched bread or partially-rotted vegetables. When she was unlucky, and hunger gnawed at her stomach, she ate handfuls of snow.

Light's gone, day's end  
Struggling to pay rent  
Long nights, strange men

She lived in a tiny, chilly room that was barely big enough for her one piece of furniture – an old mattress on the floor. Fantine was grateful that there was no fireplace, for without one, she wasn't tempted to buy firewood. Every _sou_ that she might've spent on firewood was one less that she could send to the Thénardiers to help care for Cosette. Her room was cold, but the Thénardiers had written in their last letter that it was the coldest winter on record in Montfermeil, and they needed more money to buy warmer clothes for her daughter.

She hated that she spent so much of what little money she made to pay the landlord's rent, but what choice did she have? She couldn't afford to lose her room. She wouldn't have nearly as many customers – that was what she called the men, even though _customers_ was far too kind a word for the rough-handed brutes – if she had no place to bring them but a back alley or beneath the docks by the river.

Often a violent round of coughing or the sound of her own teeth chattering woke her from sleep, and since she had no fireplace, she lit a candle for warmth and comfort. It threw dark, flickering shadows on the bare brick walls of her room. Fantine drew her tattered shawl around her shoulders and hunched closer over its feeble flame.

Ripped gloves, ripped coat  
Tried to swim to stay afloat  
Dry house, wet clothes

Fantine learned quickly that the sound of rain falling on a roof or beating against a windowpane made a man feel lonely. It made him long for a warm body in bed beside him. On rainy nights, Fantine was almost always certain to get a customer. Sometimes – rare, bittersweet sometimes – men could even be more tender to her on rainy nights. They might take their time to the deed, or hold her afterwards, or pay her a bit more generously.

Fantine wasn't sure if she still believed in God, now that she had fallen so far from His grace, but if she had, she would've thanked Him for every rainy night that came to Montreuil-sur-Mer. She never had to wait long for a customer on those nights, and standing on the docks in the rain all night would've certainly killed her. Fantine knew that in her condition, being too wet for too long could be fatal. Rain puddles came up through the holes in the soles of her shoes and soaked her feet. Every piece of clothing she owned had holes in it.

And in a pipe she flies to the motherland  
Or sells love to another man  
It's too cold outside for angels to fly

Another terrifying letter came from the Thénardiers, saying that Cosette was ill, and they must have even more money to buy medicine for her. So Fantine sold her last possession of any value – her locket. It had been a gift from Félix long ago, and for the last several years, it had held a precious curl of Cosette's hair. Fantine carefully removed this from the locket before selling it, and she kept it tucked safely under a corner of her mattress. On the worst, most desperate nights, when her stomach was empty and her body ravaged, she took it out, always handling it as if it were gold, not merely an old lock of a child's hair.

Thinking of Cosette was her only comfort now. Sacrificing everything became easier when she reminded herself that it was all for Cosette. _Mother_ was one of the few words that still applied to Fantine that didn't shame her. She imagined her daughter growing strong again from the medicine that the Thénardiers would purchase with the money from her locket. She imagined her running about outside the inn, playing in the snow, happy and healthy and rosy-cheeked.

Her stomach always ached with hunger now, and the pain of it seemed to effect her mind. Often her daydreams became so powerful that she thought she saw Cosette right before her eyes – a cherubic little girl in a shining white dress. Never mind that she hadn't seen Cosette in years, since she'd left her at the inn in Montfermeil, miles away. Fantine was still her mother. She would know her daughter anywhere. But then she blinked, and Cosette was gone.

She held Cosette's hair reverently between her hands, as though she were praying. Fantine had no fear of death. Why should she fear an end to the marathon of misery that her life had become? No, her only fear was for Cosette. What would become of Cosette when – for Fantine knew in her heart that it was now a question of _when_, not _if_ – she died?

Dear God, what would happen to Cosette?

An angel died, covered in white  
Closed eye, and hoping for a better life  
This time will fade out tonight  
Straight down the line

Her chest jerked as she coughed weakly in the hospital bed, rustling the white blankets that the sisters had laid over her. There were white curtains drawn around her bed, making her feel hidden and safe. The rest of the cruel world – Félix's dark, handsome eyes, the sight of his back as he walked away from her, the factory foreman's rough hands as he tossed her into the street, the many foul-breathed men – all of that felt far away now, like some bad dream.

She died with her long hair hacked away, with several teeth torn from her mouth, with her cheeks sunken from her hunger, with her eyes rimmed in red and full of tears. But she died with a smile on her pale lips, and with hope in her heart for a better life – not for herself, but for Cosette. Monsieur Madeleine's promise to her, "And none will ever harm Cosette as long as I am living," the last words she ever heard, replayed in her mind until Fantine felt no fear – only peace. Her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid. When she closed her eyes forever, she saw not darkness, but a pure white light.

**FIN**


End file.
